UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE Nothing Follows A Thesis submitted in partial satisfaction of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts by Colby Calvin Buzzell December 2015 Thesis Committee: Professor Rob Roberge, Co-Chairperson Professor Andrew Winer, Co-Chairperson Professor Mark Haskell Smith Copyright by Colby Calvin Buzzell 2015 The Thesis of Colby Calvin Buzzell is approved: Committee Co-Chairperson Committee Co-Chairperson University of California, Riverside Nothing Follows A novel. By Colby Buzzell 1 "Certainly there is no hunting like the hunting of man and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never really care for anything else thereafter. You will meet them doing various things with resolve, but their interest rarely holds because after the other thing ordinary life is as flat as the taste of wine when the taste buds have been burned off your tongue.” -Ernest Hemingway 2 PRELUDE. I should probably end it. That could work. But, before I do I should perhaps insert a series of traumatic and vivid flashback scenes to the war within the next several pages of this story, maybe a long-forgotten recollection from the war that comes to me while I’m doing something random, something rather mundane while I’m stuck in traffic or pushing my half empty shopping cart through the check out aisle at some over-priced grocery store. Though predictable and highly cliché, a nightmare might work instead, have it take place on my very first night back home where I wake up screaming Rodríguez’s name over and over again or some shit, have my Mother or Father enter the room asking me what in the hell was wrong while I come to, sweating, frantically searching for my weapon. I could attempt to do all that but the problem is, I don't…I don't really want to do that and it wasn't really like that for me when I came back home. Perhaps it was for others. I wouldn't know. My nightmare began on the happiest day of my life: the day I exited from the United States military. This was sometime around the earlier stages of the war, mid- or late-2005. The weather outside was overcast with a slight drizzle. My Combat Infantry Badge bumper sticker and infantry blue chord fourragère were hanging from my rearview mirror. With my middle finger drawn I laughed out loud in excitement when I passed the sign right before the main exit: You are now Leaving Fort Lewis. Drive Carefully. Thanks for visiting. Please come again soon. A long line of incoming vehicles sat bumper to bumper trying to get onto post. I.D. Check In Progress. Have I.D. Ready. The reverse road leaving post had no 3 one in it except me. I made my way slowly through the exit, where there was a smashed-up four door sedan parked on the side of the road with a sign reminding soldiers what could happen to them if they chose to drink and drive. For a second there I thought of the vehicles that I came across in Iraq that looked far worse than that one did; the ones that told me not to re-enlist. Military vehicles that were blown to bits thanks to some 155mm IED and or the ones that burned down to the ground thanks to being hit by an RPG. I was looking forward to exiting those military gates until I noticed how my blue infantry cord dangled from the mirror like a limp-hanging flag. As “Main-Post” receded in the rearview one last time, I let go on the gas a bit and caught a look at myself in my new hat. I looked depressed. This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I’d waited for nearly my entire enlistment period for this day to arrive. Why did it feel like a mistake to leave the Army? That would be strange, seeing as how our retention NCO kept hassling me those last months, trying to get me to drink the Kool-Aid and re-enlist with such persistence you’d think he’d got a very nice little commission for each and every soldier he retained, always asking what kind of job I thought I’d get once I got out, what marketable skills I now possessed thanks to the Army, or whether I was going to put “shoot, move, and communicate” or “Locate, capture, and kill all anti-Iraqi forces” on my resume, or if I was going to apply my GI Bill towards a rewarding liberal arts degree. I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted to do with myself once I got out, other than get laid, get laid and…get laid. However, the 4 one thing I did know was that I wasn’t a “lifer,” like this Retention NCO was. I wanted to become a civilian again. This was my goal: CIVILIAN. What exactly is a civilian? It’s someone who is totally unaffected by the war. I wanted to be one of those again. They seemed like happy people. “You’ll be back,” he said, confidently dressed in full Desert Camouflage Uniform. “I was just like you once, all excited to get out and move on with my life. I got out, too, and guess what happened? That’s right. You’ll see.” The Army usually gives you a good two weeks to clear. Once your orders get cut, you're handed an ETS out-processing checklist of things you have to do in order to get out, like turn in all your equipment, make sure you don't owe the PX any money, or have any overdue books at the on post library, et cetera. You have to get a signature for each one once you complete it. One of the last signatures I needed on my separation checklist was from the Retention NCO. While I spoke with him one last time in his office, with the bold words “STAY ARMY” painted in black and gold on the office wall behind him, he kept pressing me on what job I was expecting to work on the other side of the fence. I could see by the Sergeant’s rank that he was mid-career, halfway to a retirement pension. He also wore a combat patch sewn onto his right shoulder, denoting that he had been deployed as well. I explained to him that the very first company to which I was going to apply for was McDonald’s. He thought I was kidding. He even laughed. “No,” I said gravely. “Sergeant, I’m serious. I want to work at McDonald’s.” 5 “Have you been to mental health yet?” “I’m not crazy, Sergeant.” I assured him I’d already been to mental health and, believe it or not, I'd passed. Even got the signature on my checklist to prove it but I could tell by the way he was staring at me that he didn't believe me. For every inch I gave, the Army took a mile. For the last four plus years I was unable to ever call in sick, show up late, go half-ass, or refuse to work. I just had to suck it up and drive on. You’re just not allowed to quit in the Army. It was all blood sweat and tears, 24/7. Once in Iraq, near death with the flu, I had to beg and plead with them to send me over to sick call where I was essentially handed a single Motrin the size of a pebble, told to take a knee, drink more water, and stop being a pussy. Hooah? And guess what? After that, I still had to go out on missions that day. Three of them! I told the Sergeant that I wanted to be able to know what freedom feels like again, to be able to walk around with my hands in my pocket or call in sick again, or not be sick at all and call my boss up and simply tell him that I wasn’t coming into work that day, that I just don't feel like it and hear him say, “Okay. Fine.” I want to know what it’s like again to show up five, fifteen, or even just four point five seconds late to work and not be punished for it by being assigned extra duty and told to do push ups, sit ups, and low crawls as a form of corrective training until I’m fucking puking my guts out. I want to be able to work the fryer at McDonald’s and have the boss come up to me at tell me that I’m not doing it right, that I’m doing it all wrong, and me, telling him, hey you know what? Fuck you. That’s right, fuck you. You don’t like how I’m doing the fries, then you fucking do it. You know what I 6 mean, Sergeant? I want to be able to work a job where I’m able to say fuck you to someone without fear for my life afterwards. I want to be able to have the freedom of tearing my apron off in anger, throwing it down on the ground if need be and say, you know what? Fuck this shit, I’m not taking it anymore, I quit. What? You want me to run out across the street over to where Third Squad is, while we’re all pinned down just so I could draw fire so that you guys can find out where they’re shooting from? Yeah, okay, you know what? Fuck you.